


Forget My Fate

by lextenou



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lextenou/pseuds/lextenou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opera AU. Myka is a soprano with a unique and odd gift. One night, she meets someone who was supposed to be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I Am Laid In Earth

**Author's Note:**

> The aria for which each chapter is named, and the opera from which it comes. 
> 
> Chapter 1: "When I am Laid in Earth", Dido and Aeneas  
> Chapter 2: "Vesti la Giubba", Pagliacci  
> Chapter 3: "Il Dolce Suono", Lucia di Lammermoor  
> Chapter 4: "Di Quella Pira", Il Trovatore  
> Chapter 5: "Ist Ein Traum", Der Rosenkavalier

When Myka Bering sang, silence resounded through the world. Ships paused in their course. Parents clung to their children with desperation as the youth wept unknowing tears. Lovers parted allowed their loss to course down their damask cheeks. Haunted visages allowed their sorrow to flow freely.

Throughout, the notes of the aria chosen for her wound through the air, each breath helding tightly onto the sorrow that held her power. Agony ripped through her frame as she caressed each syllable.

In the quiet darkness of box twelve, a dark figure smiled.

 

* * *

 

Travelling the world as a kept pet was it's own form of torture. Moreso when the reason for the agreement was so tawdry. Every week, she would ask. Every week she would be denied.

So she continued to sing. Continued to pour the longing into performances, continued to pour the anger and regret and the sting of bitter betrayal into every moment she stood on the well worn, taped boards of the stage.

At night, when the world held possibility in its pregnant grasp, she wept silent tears. Her fate was not to be the woman she wished.

She was surrounded by the finest of existence, silks and furs and crystal, jewels and gilt, yet what her heart ached for most did not exist.

She wept.

 

* * *

 

"You are not meant for this world."

The quiet words were breathed against the back of her exposed neck, the swept style of her hair keeping the long smooth column exposed. Her bared shoulders prickled as a frisson of fearful excitement traced along her senses as the smooth tones that emerged from behind her. She had escaped the crush of cloying admiration within the manor, the milling people all seeking to impress upon her the majesty of her salon performance. Others sought her patronage, or her body. A few sought her for upcoming events. She'd directed as many of them as possible to Dickenson, knowing her handler would handle their requests and inform her of her next assignment with the same alacrity his voice always held.

It had finally become too much when the simpering weasel who last tried to curry her favor had insisted on grasping her hand and pressing an unwelcome and rather dry kiss to the back of her hand. Nausea had overwhelmed her at the brush of his lips and she had tapped the reserve she always held to throw just enough of a tantrum to ensure she would not be followed. A talent that had apparently failed her.

Myka turned, the flagstone of the balcony scuffling beneath the soft soles of her shoes, her flowing dress cascading in a smooth circle around her. The cascading ringlets that framed her face bounced against her cheek as her eyes sought the speaker that had interrupted her welcome solitude.

A shadow separated from the darkness of the ivy clung wall. Amorphous and relaxed, a single step was taken toward Myka.

"Who are you to dare-"

A smiling voice interrupted her smoothly, the hint of an unshared amusement trickling across her frayed nerves. "To intrude upon your thoughts, kept hidden from the world?" A low chuckle sounded in the chill night air. Her petulance had brought her out here, placed her in this spot with this stranger who refused to identify and she was unsure what would occur before she could escape. "I come bearing no missive of admiration, no sought for deal, no stated desire aside from this: to tell you truly, you are not meant for this world."

Her sharp inhalation betrayed her as much as the fluttering hand at the base of her throat. "I'll scream."

"I am not so base as to threaten you. I am merely telling you this is not the life you are meant for." The shadow was beginning to come into slighter focus as her eyes more fully adjusted to the dimness of the night. One shoulder was propped against the ivy and brick, giving the intruder a casual air. A glint of metal at the waistband of dark trousers was more than enough hint to Myka to not make any rash movements. "Simply put, Myka, you are meant for greater than this."

"I am the most sought after soprano in the world. How, praytell, can something other be more relevant to life than that?" The words coated her tongue in acrimony.

Stepping into a single shaft of light, Myka was finally able to catch a glimpse of the face of her intruder. A brief half mask covered the cheekbones and allowed glittering eyes to latch onto her. Full lips spoke five words that upended her reality. "I know where he is."

Stiffly, Myka choked out the only thing she could think to say. "You're lying."

A slim hand reached out, the black leather of the gloves feeling cool against the flush of her skin. A single sharp tug had Myka falling forward, her descent halted by the long form before her. "You've been around these society fools for far too long." A glint of gold on one lapel caught Myka's eye and she gasped at the sight of the symbol she thought she'd never see again. "You've been too well guarded for me to approach. Tonight is the first time your watchdogs have loosened their grip in months." Softly, a shared whisper filled the air between them as Myka studiously ignored the thrumming pulse that filled her at the possibility of regaining what had been stolen from her so long ago. "They think they've broken you."

A sad smile curved Myka's mouth, her eyes glittering in the shadowed light. Glancing over her shoulder, she pressed the stranger back into the shadows again, her hands clutching at the loose greyness of the shirt. Her thumb curved around the edge of the shirt, brushing against warm skin.

"We don't have time. What must I do?"

A gloved finger traced along the line of her chin. The words ghosted across her skin. "I have delivered my message. My task here is complete for the night." Soft leather brushed against her lower lip as her face was held in one hand. "I will be watching and waiting for another opportunity to catch you alone." The warmth between their bodies was enough to ward off the night air. A quick glance to the wide doors that led back to the salon brought their mouths closer together. "Until then, if anyone is to ask, this is why I came."

Warm lips covered her own and Myka tensed in shocked surprise. Chaste but for the knowledge of who the one pressing suit was to her, the soft kiss was brief. Myka's hands remained clutched tightly in the looseness of the shirt, gripping at the figure before her until her hands were forcibly removed by strong fingers clad in soft leather.

"Farewell, nightingale. We shall meet again." Myka stood staring after the shadow that had upset her quiet solitude, two fingers brushing against the ghostly remnants of suitor's kiss.

What in the name of the gods was Helena G. Wells doing back from the dead?

 

* * *

 

It had been endless eternities since Myka had allowed herself to think truly of the circumstances that had brought her to this fate. Normalcy had long been her life, her home and her family encompassing her in warmth and joy. Until the fateful day when everything had imploded into itself.

She'd been embraced into the grandest team she'd ever known - embraced and welcomed, given a purpose she had thought she'd never find. The faces of her family, begun as ersatz before gaining a depth she had never imagined, floated through her mind. For so long she had suppressed the images, but now, now after seeing the cloaked and shadowed figure of Helena G. Wells, she allowed herself to tread those pathways of memory once again.

It had been the stopping of the carriage that had truly begun it. It had contained their objective, however, and she could not regret the capture of the insane torturer that had spent too long amongst the populace. What she did regret was not taking more backup with them when they breached the manor that had housed the victims. The collapse of the building had been sudden, cracking wood and scraping stones more than deafening. Coming as it did, timed as it was, she'd always held the belief it had been done on purpose, especially as she was captured by the Collodi Cantata Company so easily afterward. She had prayed, as she had watched the fire and destruction rain down, that the shock on H.G.'s face was not enough to prevent her from escaping. Then the insufferable bastard that now owned her life had brought her to the cell that would be her home, his cold voice wrapping around the news with an unmasked glee.

No one knew where she was. No one would come for her. No one knew who she was.

And then she was remade.

The snap of the choker that wrapped around her throat was something she struggled against to no avail. It was only after the choker was placed upon her throat that the final indignities were visited upon her.

She was told of the deaths, of the cold murders of her family. How each had reached their ignominious death. She railed. She refused. Agony traced along her nerves and she refused, refused to bow to it.

Then the locket was placed in her hand. A dent in one side. The rusty stain of blood coating the back in a telling splash. The soot that came off onto her fingers as she opened it and looked at the pictures held within.

"They have all been dealth with." A baleful glare raked over her. "Including that whelp."

It wasn't until after he left that Myka allowed herself to feel the crushing loss.

But now!

Now, she'd seen someone who she'd been told was dead. She'd seen H.G. Wells. Wells, who told her that her son was alive. Wells, who came bearing the mark of protection they'd all carried. Wells, who had kissed her.

Were she any other, the last would be the least of her discomfiture.

She was bound to a man she hated, doing work she hated, as a person she hated, because she was unable to remove a choker that transformed her captivity into purest musics.

She'd once seen a building collapse upon a woman she cared for, worked with, and hoped for something -

The confusion in her mind held nothing for the proscribed task Wells had completed.

It reserved itself solely for puzzlement over the one action that bore no explanation.

Helena's kiss.


	2. Vesti La Giubba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Laugh, clown, laugh!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "Vesti la Giubba" as performed by the East Village Opera Company. Also inspired by Mario Lanza's performance of the same piece.

It took barely a week before she saw a glimpse of the masked and shadowed figure that haunted her. Her carriage clattered down the narrow streets of the capital city, drawing her closer to the Grand Ballroom. Her performance on the morrow was to be the resurgence of a long awaited role, well loved by the public but difficult on the performer such that it had not been performed except by the best of the best since it's inception over two hundred years previous.

She had rehearsed the piece more than sufficiently to be confident that her performance would thrill and titillate. Therefore, the night was to be devoted to a restrained frivolity in the form of what had been promised to be a small gathering in fancy dress. Naturally, she knew better than to expect that it would truly be small. She expected a crush, and had dressed appropriately. It was not often she was allowed to indulge her impish humor, but the night did well for her purposes.

Most often at these gatherings, she was left to fend off the advances of dilettantes and cloying ancients that reeked of desperation and the conviction that money would soothe all ills. Normally, she would attire herself in appropriate finery. Every once in a great while, she would select an outfit for her own amusement. Tonight's dress was to be a pair of fine buck trousers, loose green tunic and broad leather belt. The quiver and bow at her back betrayed her character, as did the hooded brown mantle. At the last, she'd appeared as Desdemona seeking not her Othello. This time, she would appear before all and sundry as a wolf's head, on the way to the archery tournament.

Sadly, her quiver remained empty.

The carriage clattered to a slow rumbling stop almost a full block away from the Grand Ballroom. Rolling her eyes at the protestation of her guards, Myka swung down from the carriage. Standing on ceremony was not for her this night. As she stalked toward the double doored entryway, her eyes swept across the shadows in the alleyway opposite. A slender figure attired in black stepped partially into the light of the streetlamp, the shadows preventing Myka from seeing more than a glimpse of a masked face. She inhaled in surprised recognition.

Helena was here.

\---

Myka's instinct had borne fruit. The crowd within pressed together in alarming closeness. Were those in attendance not cautious, undue liberties would be taken. As it stood, the press of bodies had more than once triggered forcible restraint on Myka's part, lest her fist become intimately acquainted with the face of an admirer keen to press their suit.

With the assistance of her three attendants, she was able to make her way to the seat that had been reserved for her. Naturally her attendants were to stand about her, as they always did, hovering and watching with keen, observant eyes. A flash of memory quirked her lip in quiet amusement. It had been diverting to see the Marquess thrown out on his ear after his insult the month previous.

The limp crustless sandwiches, weak tea and rancid orgeat in the adjoining room ensured that few enough would be drawn away, and those that were would be seeking their amusement at the gaming tables. Though to be true, more than a few had been ruined at the hand of the young Jinks, Viscount Muskerry. It seemed the lad was gifted with the persuasive ability to determine when his tablemates were bluffing which he handily turned to his favor.

Myka smiled at the simpering backbiter who presented over her hand with a weak leg. His most recent works had included the attempt to slander the Madame of the very establishment they stood within. His presence must surely be a great sufferance, borne simply due to the pressures of keeping the Grand Ballroom open. Were it otherwise, Myka was surely convinced that it must indicate a weakening of the fine fettle that so pervasively wound itself around the Madame.

"You simply must dance with me, my dear?" Were his simpering syllables not sufficient to stretch her patience, the insufferable habit he bore of constantly affecting a lisp would do so.

"I fear I would be much put out by such a happening, my lady. Please grant me the pleasure of your company 'round the dance floor."

Myka turned her head toward the smooth and rich tones of the familiar voice, her gaze connecting with the fathomless darkness of her new suitor. A single hand was extended expectantly toward her, the elegant fingers encased in buckskin gloves that appeared to be worn buttery soft. Dimly aware that around them, titters began to circulate through the crowd, Myka stood, placing her hand in that of her suitor. Her chin raised, a teasing smile dancing around the edges of her amusement.

"Indeed. It would seem the air clings to the senses overmuch 'round here." Myka slid her fingers over her suitor's palm, meeting a dark smirk with one of her own. "Perhaps a turn shall clear my," she paused, her gaze dropping to linger over a full mouth as she spoke, "head."

The titters erupted in nervous giggles as Myka allowed herself to be led away from the cluster of admiration. The firm grip on her hand guided her as they made their way to the dance floor. Much had flitted across her mind since their last encounter. She'd mulled over the words that had been spoken, replayed them until their very meaning was lost. Still she did not find succor. Had the intimation been indicating that her son still lived, or was the he that had been spoken of been of a different sort? And what of the others? Had the acrimonious words spoken to her so long ago been lies?

Her fingers tightened briefly around those of her escort. She inhaled deeply, the tang of unwashed sweat and cloying perfumes assaulted her from all sides. Long practice allowed her to react with a simple tightening of the eyes, but she ached to be able to breathe deeply of the cool night air. Her softly booted feet brushed against those of the massed throng around them, and it was only the firm grip of her suitor that prevented her from being lost amidst their cloying stench.

The throng parted before them and Myka felt the tug on her hand, pulling her into position. Her side brushed against the long arm that guided her, the frisson of heat that danced along her nerves more than distraction enough to still her impatient tongue. The first notes of the music began and Myka dipped herself into the customary curtsey that began the intricate steps. Steady footwork drew their bodies together and apart, two figures dressed in trousers amidst fairies, Grecian goddeses and the odd Roman centurion. One of the throng had even come dressed as a fringed head of lettuce and stood talking with a simple shepardess who boasted a rather impressive beard. Myka could not help the admiration within her - indeed, it had always been folly to try - and she allowed herself the indulgence of taking in the full length of the form before her. The woman was infuriating at times, with this escapade an ideal example. Would it be the death of her to verbalize the truth of what was occuring? The tight black trousers that clung to her thighs left no doubt as to the strength of those legs that Myka had previously seen impacting firmly against an opponent's torso, dropping them to the ground in a series of efficient movements. The tender, callused fingers were hidden behind the soft gloves that traced over Myka's skin, sending shivers to the base of her spine. Smooth skin scarred with the work of her years laid unexplored beneath the loose and flowing black shirt, the laces at the collar loose enough to allow Myka to slide a hand within should she so choose. Sparkling dark eyes twinkled merrily at her from behind the now customary half mask that obscured the high cheekbones and aristocratic nose that haunted Myka's very dreams.

At the next dip inward of their bodies, Myka abruptly admonished, "I swear by all that is holy-" H.G. paused Myka's words with an abrupt shift of balance, forcing Myka to step into the dance and recover lest their thin cover be blown. "Talk to me!" Softly hissed, the words did not have their desired effect.

A knowing smirk lifted one side of H.G.'s mouth, and she shook her head just the slightest, her lips parting to breathe two words. "Not yet."

One gloved hand slid around her waist, pressing against her side with strong fingers. Myka's resolve fluttered in her throat, stilling any words she might have spoken. A brief, slowly given nod was her only response. Her companion gave her the same quirked smile that so frequently previous had sent Myka's senses skittering.

A flourish from the orchestra brought the piece to a close and the assembled throng applauded merrily, Myka included. When she turned her head to catch H.G., she discovered that the infuriating woman had disappeared, leaving instead a simpering idiot that smiled at her with the kind of lewd hinting that left her feeling the need to scrape skin raw. Forcing a smile, she dipped her head and they began the next dance.

She twirled around the dance floor with suitor after suitor, briefly pausing once to swallow some tepid tea before returning to a contradance with a passable if uninteresting young lord. After this dance, she really should rest. It was all becoming too much, and her feet ached. As soon as she twirled from the last of his touch, she caught sight of her next partner and her breath caught in her throat.

H.G. stood before her, bowing deeply. Rather a different sight than her earlier suitor, H.G. presented with a fine leg and a strong, capable hand. Myka placed her hand within that of the infuriating woman before her, accepting her wordless request. Across the ballroom, the orchestra began the gentle strains that inevoked the haunting beauty of the Danube. A soft laugh emerged from Myka as she draped her hand over H.G.'s shoulder, sliding her palm along the fine wool of her jacket. She moved closer as H.G.'s hand curved around her waist, the gloved palm centering itself at the small of her back and pulling their bodies taut. As the tempo picked up, their feet moved in the ingrained pattern which spun them around the room.

The pain in her feet was shunted aside. Maybe she'd be able to finally wrest some answers from the woman she'd once called partner. Regardless of what answers were or were not coming, she was certain that the embrace that held her was one that would haunt her thoughts for days to come. If naught else in her life were to come to fruition, the sensation of the arm wrapped around her waist would assuage myriad ills as the memory was recalled. Her mind ticked over the sensations that filled her, the smooth leather against her palm where their hands met, the sway of their hips through the steps of the dance that led them in broad swirls around the room.

"As you can see, I am alive and well. I must beg of you patience, and the allowance to summarize." Myka smiled slightly, keenly aware that the eyes around the room were raking them over, evaluating both the dashingly cloaked figure and the rakish diva in their midst. The broadly splayed hand on the small of her back pulled them closer, allowing softly murmured words to reach no farther than her ears. "The boy is held safe with our people. He misses you." A rapid twirl did not help keep the stunned expression from Myka's features, though she schooled it away rapidly. Too many eyes were upon them for her to allow such lapses. "You were the only one taken." Myka laughed softly, the sound hollow in her throat.

"Naturally. Everything I was told was falsehood." She gripped H.G.'s shoulder with the strength she had barely managed to keep up during her captivity. "Is he well." She cast her eyes over the crowd rapidly, noting the attention of her chaperones as she spoke the words casually, flippantly. She tossed her head back and laughed the false laugh that she always used on ardent suitors. The lines of tension on their shoulders dropped, and they returned to merely observing them closely as opposed to the readiness for action that had lined their bodies.

A broad smile curved the lips that had haunted Myka for months, and she found herself smiling in return. Her reactions to this woman were too real and too close to the surface for her to justify anything other than the unfettering of their shackles. To try to hide her emotions would ring false with her captors, and to be fair, the experience would richen her performance on the morrow, rent as it was with longing.

"Studying goes better when I visit, it seems." The dark head dipped closer, their noses separated by a scant handspan. "Much fascination with my fields of study. It seems you've rubbed off on him."

The blush that settled high upon Myka's cheeks was unrestrained, her own fascination with the woman who led them around the dance floor more than sufficiently commented upon by their entire team. And by her son - though truly now, he most likely saw much more of the damnably fascinating woman then Myka did or could. The forced restraint of her captivity prevented her from enjoying many of her favorite activities in life, though it seemed the one she was being allowed was the one she had dared not speak of prior to her confinement.

"Were the subject matter uninteresting, I'm sure he would find no enjoyment of them." Myka could feel the tease in her smile, echoed by the sparkle in the eyes that wandered over her face. A brief pang of longing and regret struck her with physical force, her stomach churning in knots. She ached to be able to brush his hair off of his forehead, listening as he told her of his day with the rushed tumble of words that always emerged when he was truly excited. It was a habit he had inherited from her, and was not the worst to interpret, especially for one such as Helena.

A soft chuckle sounded, vibrating beneath her splayed palm. "I never realized how many of your habits were present until I had the chance to spend more time." A rakish grin lifted the full mouth, and Myka could not resist staring. "Same nose wrinkle when you're frustrated." Myka's hand squeezed the gloved one she held, the grip firm in unspoken censure only drawing a rich throaty laugh. The strains of the song to which they twirled began their final movement, and a brief hesistation tightened around the corners of the mouth that kept drawing Myka's glances. "One hour. Be alone."

Myka's consciousness spun as much, if not more, than their dervish dancing as Helena swept a low bow and pressed a single kiss to the back of one bare hand.

Myka smiled.

\---

Fifty three minutes and twenty seconds after the kiss had been pressed against her hand, Myka stood in her room, her fingers running through the long tangle of curls that cascaded from her head. The moments of the night replayed in her mind, and she was never so grateful as that night for her reputation as a diva. None had thought it odd for her to flounce from the fete a short few moments after her dance with Helena. She had contrived an insult and stomped away with the petulance that only those who are revered solely for the beauty they create are capable. A foul humour was simplistic to feign - she truly did not care to be surrounded by any of the ninnies or jackanapes that thronged about her in the guise of sycophants.

Thus it was that she stood in the wan moonlight, her fingers busying themselves in the cascading hair that waxed problematic when she least desired it to do so. Her earlier attire had been discarded and relegated back to the depths of her wardrobe. She'd allowed herself the indulgence of caressing the cloth and leather, remembering the sensation of Helena's fingers against her. The simple pleasure was one she had not frequently allowed herself beyond the intimacy of friendship.

In truth, she could hardly call what she and Helena had as a friendship. A working partnership might have been closer to truth, but it was amorphous, an ephemeral thing that eluded any identity she strove to assign.

"Hello, Myka."

Her hands paused in her hair for a half breath, before continuing. The throaty greeting was laced with a hesistation she didn't quite understand. "Hello, Helena."

A soft footfall sounded behind her, from near the balcony where Helena's voice had emerged. It seemed Helena had an affinity for the architecture. "Your exit was notable."

Myka laughed quietly, her head shaking gently. "Fulfilling the expectation of my role." The cloth band around her throat remained as secure as ever, the smooth, unbroken ribbon absorbing the emotion of her life until it could be transmuted into angel's song. "It's what allows me some measure of solace in this..." She couldn't put to words what she meant, but the soft touch at her elbow indicated that her words were unnecessary.

"I can leave if you'd prefer."

Myka turned, her hand capturing the slender wrist of her first welcome visitor. Helena had not changed out of her costume, the removal of her mask and gloves the only change from the dashing figure that had led Myka a merry turn. "Do you have a further message to relay to me?" A shadow of fear crossed over Helena's features at the question.

"No."

Myka canted her head to the side. "Then, why-"

The wrapping of Helena's hands around her waist was not entirely unexpected. Neither too was the press of the long body against her own. After the activities of earlier, both were more than welcome.

The kiss, however, was a surprise.

It was slightly off center, Helena's lips pressed against her own in a surge of motion. As rapidly as it had occured, it ended, Helena backing away, her breath coming hard and fast in the quiet room. The rush of it broke the air with it's harshness.

The gentlest of whispers caressed against Myka's consciousness. "I miss you."

Then Helena was gone, and all that was left was Myka, standing alone in her bedroom, her fingers pressed against her lips.


End file.
